They come and go and have gone again. It’s a game of much consequence that I often play with too little respect. There’s more at stake than an empty page. Even so, what’s one blank page?
Sometimes only that. But other times it’s the desolation found in the aftermath of the disaster that, while sudden and tragic, could have been avoided. Not easily, maybe, but certainly just the same. That blank page, so recently a budding flower, now a fading memory of love and joy and life. Fading, but not forgotten yet. Tucked neatly away, accessible, if only just barely.
There’s no escape, though. No alternative. No place I might go where my lost words won’t haunt me. Where the burden of their nonexistence isn’t felt. Mr. Emerson was right. “My giant goes with me wherever I go”.
I read. I search for them. I cry when I see them written by someone else. But again I think of Emerson. “That which each can do best, none but his Maker can teach him”.
Broken can be fixed.
Long forgotten, remembered.
One letter at a time, like a single pixel or dab of paint, revealing itself, mingling, cooperating. Coming home. Answering my call.